


Gratitude

by MimeticEternity



Category: Star Wars
Genre: Adorable Ani, Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Fluff, Sad Obi-Wan, Sweet, sick, someone hug obi-wan pls, sweet ani, sweet sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8864326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimeticEternity/pseuds/MimeticEternity
Summary: Obi-Wan gets sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a couple days ago while I was sick and sad, but I only just finished it now. Basically, if I am sick and sad, then Obi-Wan is sick and sad. MWAHAHAHA ENJOY (there is also some fluff tho not all is sad fear not)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It had started two mornings ago when he’d first woken up. It was an unsettling, insidious thing, tickling the back of his throat and itching slightly at his lungs. After he’d risen and washed up however, it’d seemed to disappear, vanishing as he’d gone about his day. The next morning, it’d reappeared again, waking Obi-Wan with a throat that needed constant clearing and a nose that was just the slightest bit stuffy. Again, it vanished as he’d gone about his day, but unlike before, it’d resurfaced late that night. The small hammertaps of a headache had started to beat at the base of his skull, and in a desperate attempt to stop this cold in his tracks, he’d bought three bottles of vitamin-rich ganga juice, chugging two and hoping that when he awoke the next day he would be cured.

He was not.

He awoke with his head all abuzz, his nose stuffy and his throat sore. Groaning, he rolled over and stuffed his face into his pillow. _Sith hells, maybe if I’m lucky I’ll just suffocate to death._

If there was one thing that Obi-Wan Kenobi hated, it was being sick. It felt like some kind of obscene treachery, for his own body to be rebelling against him. He resisted the very unJedi-like urge to whine and kick his feet and forced himself to sit up, cursing when the world spun and he had to swallow back the urge to throw up all over his sheets. After a long moment of steadying himself and cursing whatever it was that had gotten him sick, he stood, wobbling a bit before starting to shuffle towards the door. With a cursory use of the Force he triggered the door to open, stepping into the sitting room. The sounds of Qui-Gon bustling about in the kitchen reached him, and Obi-Wan would have sighed in relief if his nose weren’t so stuffy. He then realized two things at the same time:

1\. Qui-Gon always made it a point to cook and care for him whenever he was sick, hence why Obi-Wan thought he was in the kitchen.

2\. Qui-Gon had died nearly three months ago on Naboo.

Obi-Wan staggered, stumbling back and colliding solidly with the wall behind him. _Focus!_ he chided himself even as his breathing stuttered and tears started knocking behind his eyes, further clogging up his nose. The noises from the kitchen stopped, and Obi-Wan choked. He could already hear the echos of words that would never be said.

_Good morning, love. I made you some soup._

_N-ugh, thank you, Qui. I can hardly breathe. I feel like a bantha’s dancing around in my skull._

_Here, lean over the steam. There you go._

_Thank you. Thank you._

_Mhm… Master?_

_…W…What?_

_Master Kenobi?_

_Qui-Gon, what-?_

“Master Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan jumped in his skin and looked up, eyes wide and breath coming in stutters from a slightly gaping mouth. _A…Anakin?_

Anakin was standing in the kitchen doorway, heavy concern pulling at his eyebrows and tugging at his mouth. “Are you okay, sir?”

Obi-Wan stared, mind just as stuffed up as his nose. Anakin gestured down at what he was holding in his hands. “I made you some soup.”

Obi-Wan looked down at the steaming bowl, then back up at his new padawan’s face. “You…Aren’t you supposed to be in the creche?”

“Yeah, but I could tell that you haven’t been feeling well, so I thought I’d make you something,” Anakin explained, walking forward and putting the bowl on the dining table. “It’s my mom’s recipe. She…always made it whenever I got sick.”

A shadow of sadness passed over Ani’s normally bright eyes, but it passed quickly, replaced by a determined smile. “It’ll make you feel better!”

Unfazed by Obi-Wan’s trembling hands and still slightly-wide eyes, he tugged on his master’s sleeve until he’d dragged him forward, pulling him down so that he was sitting at the table in front of the soup. There was a spoon in his hand, and then a small hand on his back, gently urging him to lean forward. “Lean over the steam. It’ll help with your nose.”

Obi-Wan’s throat clenched, and he turned to look at Ani, mouth opening to speak, but a small hand holding a cloth stopped him. “You’re crying.”

Anakin said it matter-of-factly, slight wonder mixed with sadness in his voice as he tilted his head and gently wiped away the tears on Obi-Wan’s face. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you now.”

He urged Obi-Wan to eat, and Obi-Wan, after another moment of gaping, turned back to the soup and put a spoonful of the warm stuff into his mouth. Anakin stood and rubbed his back soothingly while he ate, and it was only after he’d finished the entire bowl that he managed to lean back, look at Anakin, and say with more gratitude than he thought he could ever feel, “Thank you.”


End file.
